by SE Jakes
“You’re so dirty, T.”
“For you.”
“You so fucking love this.”
“And you push me to it on goddamned purpose,” Tom ground out.
Prophet shrugged his answer.
Tom kissed him fiercely. Because he didn’t really need Proph to answer anyway. Prophet didn’t have to ask for what he wanted, because he knew Tom would know how—and when—to give it to him. And that kind of trust? Tom wouldn’t have it any other way.
Finally, he broke the kiss, patted Prophet’s ass, noting his legs were trembling. “Come on. Couch. On your hands and knees, bébé.” Prophet half turned his face so Tom could see the clench in his jaw. “You started this, Proph. I’m just trying to finish it. Unless you don’t want to finish . . .”
His voice must’ve held the right amount of lust and warning, because Prophet grunted, then grudgingly walked around to the front of the couch and carefully climbed on, the barely reattached arm groaning against his weight.
On his hands and knees, head bowed, Prophet managed to look vulnerable and in control at the same time, the muscles on his back bunching under his tanned shoulders. Tom’s fingers itched to draw again as much as his cock wanted to come. The eternal fight between sex and art, he supposed. Which is why he’d always liked combining them.
He satisfied himself momentarily by tracing the now-familiar patterns on Prophet’s skin after climbing onto the cushions behind him. The dreamcatcher he envisioned under the right shoulder blade that would run along his side to feather on his ribs . . .
“I don’t understand why you’re trying to motherfucking kill me,” Prophet growled. And it was an unmistakable show of temper. And it turned Tom the fuck on, more than he’d already been.
Tom wound an arm around him, jerked Prophet hard against him, rubbing his cock against Prophet’s ass, prepared to fuck him until Prophet screamed his name.
“Smile for the camera.” He yanked Prophet’s hair, not needing to see Prophet’s face to know exactly what he looked like in this moment.
Cillian wasn’t seeing any of this, but owning Prophet this way was too good of a dare to resist.
He put his hand between Prophet’s shoulder blades, pressing him down to his elbows—they were sliding forward anyway, since the arm on the couch wasn’t holding well under their combined weight—and the angle allowed him to sink into Prophet, so hot and tight. Soon, nothing would come between them. For now, he’d pretend there wasn’t a condom there.
Because Prophet came to New Orleans for him. In turn, Prophet needed to be shown exactly how Tom felt . . . and Tom would do so, as often as necessary. He also wouldn’t forget that this all started with a game. “Let’s talk about your favors.”
“Talk? You’re . . . fucking . . . kidding me.”
“I did my dare. Isn’t it time for your truth?” God, it was getting harder to think—he slowed his thrusts, which made Prophet groan with frustration and punch the arm of the couch in front of him. Which made it partially come off, and Tom had to grab his hips hard to keep from sliding out of him.
“Tommy, come on.” Prophet dug in, pushing his hips back against Tom, a testament to Prophet’s strength since Tom was pretty much holding him immobile. “Fuck that truth for tonight. This . . . this is truth to me right now.”
Tom stilled, wondering how Prophet could just floor him in an instant. He reached around to palm Prophet’s cock. Tugged a few times. “And this is my truth for now, but it’s not where this ends.”
Prophet laughed, then groaned. “Is that how it’s gonna be?”
“I’ll tell you exactly how it’s gonna be,” Tom drawled as Prophet’s body stiffened under him, then shuddered uncontrollably as Tom held him tight. “Yeah, let go . . . got you.”
“I know you do, Tommy.”
Tom knew that was the only reason Prophet could actually let go at all . . . and it made Tom at once honored and more fiercely protective of this man than ever.
Present day
Tom looked around the wreckage of the room. “Fuck, you know this always happens when you mention that game, Proph.”
“At least you didn’t light the couch on fire again and almost burn the place to the ground.” Prophet’s tone was close to a reprimand.
Tom stared at him. “Seriously? I threw it out the window immediately—into the ice storm—so I still don’t see the reason for your freak-out, princess.” Prophet raised his brows, but Tom continued, “And that burn down the middle of the kitchen table? That didn’t almost set us on fire?”
“I put it out,” Prophet said calmly. “And stop talking about it. You’re making me want to fuck you again, and I’ll die if I do that. And it’ll be on your head.”
“Don’t talk about heads if you don’t want to have sex,” Tom shot back. Because yes, the mere mention of that night always had them reliving it.
That Truth or Dare night had ended in more sex. Because yeah, the combination of bed and Prophet was never a bad way to end anything. Even if it was a bed, like now, completely stripped of any coverings, sheets, pillows . . . It looked like . . . Holy hell, the room looked like a hurricane hit it.
Or a tornado. His own goddamned personal one. And even though that made him smile, something else caught in his memory, and he raised his head and snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute.”
Prophet opened his eyes. “You know what happened to the sheets?”
“No. I never got my truth that night.”
“I got your truth right here.” Prophet rolled onto his side and pointed between his legs.
“You’re twelve. I swear.”
“There are no twelve year olds packing this, T.”
“Not even you when you were twelve?”
Prophet smiled smugly. “I was an exception.”
“Yes, you’re definitely the exception. And don’t try to change the subject. You owe me a truth.”
“The statute of limitations on that game expired.”
“Really, Mr. Exception?”
Prophet smiled. “I like that name. You can keep calling me that.”
“Truth. Where is mine?”
“It was a game.”
“I carried a motherfucking couch on my back.”
“Really? Now we’re lying about couch-carrying abilities?” Prophet shook his head sadly. “I’m so disappointed. We all know you pushed it up the stairs. And really, what did it ever do to you but bring you pleasure.”
Tom stared at him, the way he imagined he would a mental patient. Which really wasn’t that far off from what he was dealing with. “Now I get two truths.”
“How do you figure that?”
“It’s like interest.”
Prophet sighed, turned away, and began rooting around as he hung over the side of the bed. “Where are the pillows? How can you fuck away pillows? That’s inhuman. Unholy.”
“Right. So two truths. I want to know what the favors you do for Mal entail. And I want to know the last time you did one for him.”
Prophet shifted, still rooting around on the floor for the sheets and pillows, his ass almost in Tom’s face, which at any other time might be appealing . . . until, “I take him to BDSM clubs. And two weeks ago.”
Tom was reaching out to grab Prophet’s ass. At Proph’s words, he pulled back, thought about it, and slapped it. Hard. Prophet howled and turned, and Tom narrowed his eyes, feeling more than a little irritated. And yes, pissed at himself for bringing it all up in the first place. “Really? Two weeks ago?”
“Yeah, really. He asked.”
“Didn’t realize you owed him so much.”
“I’ll always owe him. Jesus, aren’t you two getting along now?”
“That’s not the point.” Tom pushed off the bed and Prophet rolled onto his back.
“See? You ruined a perfectly good night with the motherfucking truth!”
“We are never playing—or talking—about that game again. Ever!” Tom called over his shoulder as he walked out of the
room.
“And he calls me a princess.” Prophet sighed as he stared up at the ceiling, listening to Tommy stomp around in the living room. He got off the bed and stepped over a tangle of what were once the bedcovers to grab a pair of shorts from his dresser.
He pulled them on once he got into the kitchen, where Tom stood, still naked and drinking straight from the OJ container. Typically that bothered Tom more than Prophet, who figured that hey, they shared enough bodily fluids that this kind of thing shouldn’t matter.
“What’s your problem?” he asked as Tom continued to ignore him, even after he put the juice back in the fridge.
That got Tom to finally ground out, “Really? You’re coming at me with attitude?”
“Yes,” Prophet said evenly.
Tom tilted his head and pointed at Prophet. “So let me get this straight. We’re supposed to be watching out for danger at every turn. Not going anywhere without backup. Not supposed to leave ourselves vulnerable.”
“Your point?”
“And you’re out doing favors with Mal.”
“Right. So he’s not vulnerable.”
“How the fuck do you make this sound so rational?”
“Because it is.” Prophet heard the edge in his tone but it wouldn’t matter—Tom wasn’t going to let it go that easily. No, he’d find a way to overanalyze something that was, really and truly, goddamned simple.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
And there it was. “No.”
Tom threw his hands in the air. “You told me about the favors. It’s implied that they’re sexual. And I’m just supposed to walk away and let that shit happen? Fuck that. Fuck you.”
“Tom—” He followed Tom into the living room, where he’d been marching away.
Tom turned to him . . . and on him. “No. Is that why Mal and I are so much alike to you?”
“You’ve got things in common, but you’re not alike to me at all. Not like that.” Prophet clenched his jaw after he spoke.
“Don’t ask me to trust you. That’s bullshit.”
Prophet’s voice softened when he said, “That’s not . . . Mal and I don’t do anything together. I’m just there for him, to make sure nothing happens while he . . . Fuck, he doesn’t always know his limits, okay? It’s not about sex at all.” He paused, realized he was confusing shit needlessly, then broke it down to the basic, “I’m not cheating, T.”
Tom knew that. Understood it on every rational level he had, but irrational Tom rose up, stronger, burning hotter, and decided that he should be completely, irrationally pissed. And jealous. And if Mal were around? Tom definitely would’ve used his hands to talk.
As long as they were going for truth . . . “All those times you’ve done this before, did you go out and fuck someone’s brains out after?”
Prophet stared at him. “Yeah, I did.” And then, “But this last one? It’s the first time I’ve done this for Mal since you and I met.”
They’d never talked about exclusivity. It’d just happened. And while he didn’t feel betrayed by what Prophet had done, his stomach was in knots because Proph hadn’t told him.
Then again, it wasn’t only Prophet’s secret to tell.
Fuck.
Prophet gave a small shrug and walked away into the bedroom. If Tom wanted to fight more, he’d have to follow.
But if he was done fighting, at least for tonight?
He shifted, leaned against the couch. Thought about sleeping out here tonight, but he’d learned too much about wasted time to let that happen. Instead, he went and got into the bed . . . and wrapped around Prophet, who looked surprised. “Hey. No bad dreams tonight.”
Surprised, with a small smile. “You think?”
Did he? He’d asked for a truth, gotten it . . . and then gotten pissed, which was always, he knew, Prophet’s biggest fear of the truth. So Tom’s anger had been directed at the wrong person—at least some of it—and hell, he didn’t need to fuck with any more of Prophet’s sleep. “I’ll make sure of it,” he said fiercely, and he’d never meant anything more in his life.
Tom wasn’t just mad. No, the bastard was planning on getting even. Prophet could sense the fuck out of that shit.
Two days later, he was waiting on Tom to get home from the EE offices when Tom called him instead.
Sounding, if not a little drunk, then definitely loose. “Hey, Proph. What’s up?”
“You called me, Tom. Where are you?”
“Club.”
“Club?” Prophet echoed suspiciously.
“Place you took Mal, I think.”
What the fuck? “Jesus, T.” Tommy and a BDSM club was trouble. The kind that made his dick hard.
“Come meet me for a drink,” Tom demanded belligerently.
Pissed and a little drunk. Not a good combo. “Get in a cab and come home.”
“Nope. You’ll have to come for a drink.”
Fuck me. “Fine. Make it a shot. And then I’m dragging you home.”
“And putting me over your knee?” Tommy’s deep, slightly drunk drawl jolted Prophet. How had Tommy wrapped him so thoroughly around his finger?
“I’m coming.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“Tommy, Christ.” He hung up, grabbed the keys to his truck, and then stared down at them. Sighed. Put them back in the drawer and called a cab.
Because his eyes would betray him. Over and over, and each time it would be a surprise. But he couldn’t worry about that now, because there was plenty of other shit in the way.
He was carrying, because he had concealed weapons permits, enough of them to wallpaper his apartment. There hadn’t been any activity though, not since they’d discovered that John was, in fact, alive and well and occasionally visiting Prophet’s room, among other places.
So his nerves were set on high before he walked in. When he opened the door, scanned the room, he quickly spotted what was his. Flirting heavily at the bar. And obviously waiting and watching for Prophet, since he waved happily to him.
Seemed like Tom’s hurt and anger over last night’s admissions had faded away somewhat easily.
Too easily. And Prophet wasn’t fooled, but he was pissed that Tom would try to fool him to get him pissed.
Because really, Tom was here, the place that was literally the whole source of the fight. And even though it was more of a symbol of a bigger issue, it was still fucking weird being here with Tom, because this wasn’t a place he associated with Tom. He wouldn’t do this with Tom—not in a club, anyway, and not even in a private room. And Tom wouldn’t want it here, either. Having Tom here was . . . Prophet didn’t know how to explain it. Because Tom and Mal needed a lot of the same things, but they weren’t the same. No way.
“Hey baby. Looking for a daddy?” Prophet looked up at a big man wearing full leathers. A definite bear. Handsome too. “Saw you here a couple of weeks ago. I’m Ray.”
“Yeah?” Prophet had two options here, and the one that’d piss Tom off the most won. “Why don’t you buy me a drink, Ray?”
He was a quick three shots in when a hand clasped on the back of his neck. Normally, the urge to grab it, twist it, and slam whoever it was to the bar would hit him immediately. But this place was all about touching.
Besides, Prophet knew that touch. “S’up Tom?”
Tom moved beside him, eyes narrowed. “What’re you doing?”
“You said to come for a drink.” Prophet held up another shot. “’S’what I’m doing. With Ray.”
With Ray?
Only Prophet could manage to get pissed the way Tom wanted him to be and then quickly turn it around, accept the situation, and make it his. Which pissed Tom off. Again. Classic Prophet move. Tom tried to shake the pissed off-edness and went with command instead. “Come with me.”
Prophet gave him the side-eye. His gaze held a little drunken amusement—and something else Tom had yet to place.
But he would.
“He’s yours?” Ray, the big man in leather w
ho was sitting way too close to Prophet for Tom’s comfort looked between them.
There were so many ways Tom could answer that, several of them that could spike Prophet right through the heart. But the one that came out without hesitation was, “Better believe he’s mine.”
Ray stood. “Don’t get fucking mouthy. He sat with me.”
“I’ll deal with him,” Tom promised.
Prophet’s brows raised. He looked between Tom and Ray. Ray shrugged and nodded at Tom, like he was planning on simply walking away from this. And no, that wouldn’t fly at all, so he asked Ray, “You’re not going to fight for me?”
“You want me to?” Ray asked.
“I think you should, yes,” Prophet told him seriously.
And with that, Tommy actually goddamn rumbled, a volcano ready to fucking blow.
Prophet didn’t care. He was out of control and just wanted to roll with it.
“Try it.” Tom pushed Prophet—pushed him out of the way to go toe to toe with Ray. “See what you get.”
“Or we could teach him a lesson,” Ray offered.
“Okay, hold the phone.” Prophet stared between Ray and Tom, because that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. At all.
And how was it supposed to go?
He told himself to shut the fuck up, because he never planned shit like this. Knowing outcomes took the fun out of things, mainly because it raised the stakes. Upped the risks.
“I like the idea,” Tom was saying.
“I most certainly don’t,” Prophet informed them and scanned the bar for another guy to flirt with who wouldn’t turn on him.
Tom ignored Prophet in favor of asking Ray, “What do you have in mind?”
“I can get pretty creative. Boys like this usually need it.” Ray looked at Prophet like he was some kind of prey.
“I’m no one’s boy,” Prophet muttered irritably.
Ray smiled. Like he thought Prophet was lying. “Bring him to the back,” he told Tom before he walked in that direction.
“I’m not going to the back,” Prophet called after him. Tom motioned to the bartender for another shot, which he promptly handed to Prophet.
